I was having a conversation about church with a
girlfriend. She told me it is important
to go and be spiritual. She also added
that she doesn’t believe in what is literally being taught. I felt a strange sort of relief at this
statement. The feeling stuck with me
throughout my week, interacting with my many friends along the spectrum of
belief and doubt. My conclusion was
unexpected; I feel the same way.
Jesus is my savior… Because my mother said so.
I
have tried to think of nicer ways to say this. I have tried to argue with it…
But at the end of the day, I just do not really feel sure that Jesus was
anything more than a nice man who made a lot of friends. People never stopped talking about the guy, for
centuries.
Faith. That’s what they call it- whether one is talking
to a Christian, or a Jew, or a Buddhist, or a Muslim. We all speak of faith. We talk about “good”. We talk about “knowing what’s right”… Well, I
don’t know what’s right. Because it seems like I
had to learn all my lessons the hard way. The ones I think I can avoid learning forever
are those that I am more and more eager everyday to humble myself to. I make a decision with every conviction in my
heart to do it without ulterior motive, and somehow someone always finds a
crack in my seal.
Everything has balance-
Then I come to that state of mind where I give up chasing good and running away
from bad… and I am free of the desire to chase. I simply accept. Yes seems like the right answer to every
question; if not for me, than perhaps for the sake of the person asking. People usually do not ask questions unless they
anticipate a yes. Even when asking,
wanting to hear “no”… They are usually asking out of fear of hearing “yes”.
This can go on for some
time. There are people who
stop here altogether… They decide to make their entire life charity. This is a state of perfection in its
sacrifice. However, if one allows
him/herself to feel like a martyr, they begin to border upon pride and self-pity…
and this is not a healthy state. This is not the purpose.
Lust is a choice in
human flesh. It is sinful. It leads to jealousy, anger, and other ugly
feelings. However, desire is a
pain that the majority prefer to return to- again and again. It’s the cigarette that is worth one day less of
what might end up to be some very lonely days as a meat suit past its sell-by
date. We choose which vices we
prefer to hold onto- as individuals.
Back and forth, the
pendulum swings… excess and deprivation… hunger and satiation… determination
and indifference. This is life. Welcome.
This is what the voice
in my head tells me, anyway.
Then I talk to my mom,
and she tells me that she wants see when she gets to Heaven. And... I
give up trying to change the terminology we're using. Somehow I know whatever
she’s calling Heaven is the same thing as when my universal dust will touch
hers. I can't help but have doubts given the experience I grew up with,
compared to hers.
Nevertheless, her voice
is the voice in my head; always has been, always will be. In those moments when I am reduced to a
screaming child inside again, it is her voice that soothes me, tells me how to
find the calm again… and she says what I have heard her say a million times; “Talk
to Jesus. Tell him what’s wrong. He’ll help you.”
While my very stubborn adult exterior says, “I feel like
you’re telling me to write Santa a letter… I hear there really may have been a
man named Kris Kringle…” The little girl
inside agrees with whatever her mother tells her can deliver her from pain.
There are tricks we learn- to suppress pain. They don’t cure, they cover the agony. Layers of tissue and fascia absorb it, muffle
its voice, but it remains. It stiffens
and tightens the joints. It weakens our
natural defenses. It plants doubts in
our logic and reason. We succumb to time
and gravity.
This is when we realize we are no longer growing. We are grown.
We are standing on a great horizon, with endless horizons ahead to
choose from, but none as insurmountable as this one had seemed. It is when we stop seeking the answers and
start accepting them.
Arguing is arduous, especially with oneself.
So, maybe when I am old and my hair is silver, more of my
remaining friends will return to whatever faith their mothers indoctrinated
them. What will I have told my
children? Perhaps we will have entirely
new forms of religion, as has happened so many times over the centuries. Humans like to play with words, but the
concepts remain. We like ourselves. We imagine everything with attributes as
human as we are… and I for one am –just for today- comforted by our
imperfection.
